John Watson: Not Always Missing Everything
by Llama Badger Duck
Summary: After the suicide of Sherlock Holmes, at his funeral, John realises that quite a few things around him are getting stranger, and so he decides to do his own investigation of the suicide. Just calling some stuff I noticed to attention. I might continue it, depending on what people think.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first fanfic. I was watching the last episode of Sherlock and then I thought I should just go ahead and try my own, but I'm not sure if I should continue it or not. Let me know :)**

**Also, this is short only because it's a bit of a prologue, depending on whether or not I'm going to actually write more. Enjoy! **

* * *

"Just one more miracle," John said just before he left, "Don't... don't be dead."

He couldn't take it any more. A plan formed in the doctor's mind as he thought of what he should do; first, the phone. The phone would have to go, because he found himself dialling his late best friend's number over and over again, just staring at it in its hand. So he had left the phone on the rooftop before jumping. John had to get rid of his own phone; he couldn't get rid of Sherlock's number... he couldn't. He had sat there and stared at the 'delete' button, but his hand had shaken and he just couldn't do it. As he thought of this, just before he walked away from the graveyard, he turned around, suddenly aware of eyes on him.

"Hello?" he called out, paranoid after spending so much time running from villains. "Who's there?"

Nothing. He shook his head, sighing at himself; he had to get over this! So many friends had died in the war, so why was it so hard to get over someone who didn't even have _emotions _like normal people? What was that? John spun around again and narrowed his eyes, trying to see against the howling wind. No one. There was no tall figure, no one running after anyone... his phone signalled that he had a text, and his heart beat faster. It couldn't be! It couldn't be! He could picture the "SH" at the end of it, but it wasn't there; it wasn't Sherlock. Why was he expecting him anyway? He was _dead_. Great: now he was pretending he was alive and about to call him! He'd be mad by the end of the week. Calming himself down, John read it: _I'm sorry. Mycroft Holmes_. A sudden anger rushed through him, and for the first time that day, he realised that his best friend's brother had been absent from the funeral. His own brother's funeral. He couldn't be that sorry. Besides, it was his fault. He had _helped _Moriarty, had even given away everything about Sherlock Holmes. That name was painful to even remember; John Watson started to walk away faster, trying not to cry.

Mrs Hudson was waiting for him by the church, speaking to someone John couldn't see; the person had a hat on tilted so that it shadowed his face. Even if he had seen him, he wouldn't have cared. He was too far away to even think about home, let alone any stranger speaking to his landlady. She spotted him and smiled, waving him over. Immediately, the figure said something, and then walked swiftly away. It would have been suspicious, had John actually thought about it. Painfully, he realised that Sherlock would have gone straight to Mrs Hudson and demand who it was. He weakly returned the smile and looked around, expecting the detective to be following the retreating figure slyly and analysing him, knowing his life story.

"Are you OK now?" she asked, and he nodded. "Now, where will you go? You said you needed time away."

He thought about it and sighed. "I don't know yet, Mrs Hudson. Probably just... away from here for a bit, just so that I can clear my head a bit. Thank you for being so understanding about this. It really helps."

"You take all the time you need," she said pityingly. "I know how it is to lose someone, and you were good friends, weren't you, you two? When you first came, I was glad; someone sane in the house at last!"

John forced a laugh and looked away, not answering. Then an idea occurred to him. "Actually... I'll stay..."

Mrs Hudson stared at him in disbelief. "Are you sure about that, John? There are so many memories."

"Yes," he said, smiling. "I couldn't leave my landlady all alone, could I-that would be cruel. I'll stay."

When he got back, he immediately looked around. He hadn't stayed because of Mrs Hudson at all. In truth, he was getting as desperate and suspicious as Sherlock had with Irene Adler's phone, trying to unlock the code. Mysteries started to surround him, and he started to actually think, to wonder about the death of his best friend. He wanted to know about the odd suicide, because he knew Sherlock Holmes was not a fake... so why would he lie before jumping? What had made him do it? He wanted John to hate him, quite obviously, but _why_? Everyone was unaware that John Watson was not an idiot and knew something was wrong. It was the first time he had really thought about it, but things were bugging him; Mycroft Holmes hadn't bothered to turn up at his own brother's funeral because something had happened to make him decide not to, the figure seemed to be getting away rather quickly and seemed ever so familiar, with a voice that was nagging at John's memories, the phone had not been found with Sherlock's body and still rang out, which meant someone still had it... what was going on? Suddenly very small things became bigger, more suspicious and bad... and he was going to find out what it was before he went entirely mad with his loss.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: A few people are going to pop into the story, but only for a bit. I got slightly stuck and didn't know how to drag it into a whole chapter, so I decided to bring in the villain and some people on John's side. If I made any mistakes, I'm really sorry, and I hope it's OK. I deleted a lot of it. So here is the first chapter. Thanks for reading :)**

* * *

**Chapter One**

"Something weird is on that roof." Lestrade sighed, getting fed up of being _told _what was weird and what wasn't. It was almost like having a second Sherlock, only less annoying. "No, listen. If you shoot yourself in the head, there's gonna be a _lot _of blood, isn't there? There's hardly any up there. Don't you find that a bit odd? I've been in the war, and I think I know how much blood there's supposed to be stained there if something terrible like that happens!"

"So what are you suggesting?" the detective asked. "That that lunatic is still running around trying to get caught? Come on John, that makes no sense, and it would make _more _sense if you turned around and said-"

"And Sherlock's phone," he interrupted. "He had it on the roof. You didn't find it on the body, and it wasn't on the roof either! I _saw _him throw it behind him, so _something _is weird around here and I want to know what the hell it is. That's two things. The phone is missing, a body is missing as is the blood. That's _weird_!"

But Lestrade just shook his head. "Sorry. I think you've gone completely mad over this suicide. Take a few weeks away from here, and leave Baker Street for a bit, just to clear your head. He's dead. Face it, John."

"Oh, for God's sake!" he shouted in exasperation. "This isn't about facing the fact that he's gone! Someone has taken his phone. I don't know who, I don't know why, but I'll find them. This is the Pink Lady all over again! Someone took _her _phone after she died... oh." He suddenly remembered something. "I understand."

The detective stared at him, thinking he really had lost his mind. "Understand what? What do you mean?"

John shook his head, and walked out of the room. Lestrade could have smashed the desk in frustration; would _no one _he worked with _tell _him what the hell it was they understood, or would they all run off first?

The Pink Lady had her phone taken by her murderer. Sherlock Holmes had thrown his phone behind him onto the roof, and who had been behind him all the while, supposedly dead on the floor? But he couldn't have any use for the phone. Could he? Everything was starting to get much more confusing to John: it was impossible, but he could expect the impossible from the consulting criminal. That was stupid, though... he was dead. Wasn't he? Suddenly texting and calling his dead best friend seemed to be the worst thing to do.

He looked up, blinking, to see Mycroft was sitting where Sherlock always used to sit. He looked more tired than ever, like he had been up for weeks. "Ah, John. I wondered when you'd be returning. Are you well?"

"No..." he said slowly. "No... I haven't been well ever since your brother decided to... go. What about _you_?"

"John, I do understand how angry you are at me, but you must understand that none of this was my fault."

"None of it was your fault, huh?" Mrs Hudson, who was standing awkwardly in the hallway, sensed a war coming on, and immediately turned away to get on with her own things, shutting the door. "None of it was your fault. Must be so great to say that when you know you're a _liar_! If it wasn't for you, he wouldn't ever have faced a criminal mastermind, would he? But no! _You_ have to serve his country more than your family!"

Mycroft stood up, looking serious. "I did apologise for my actions. It was either information or my brother."

He shook his head with a cold laugh, clenching his fists. "Then it would be the information! Congratulations: I hope you're pleased about your brother's death, caused by you, because of your chats with Jim Moriarty."

"I had no choice!" he shouted. "He would have had access to everything and anything he wanted to have!"

"Does that include your brother, too, or was he just a bonus? This conversation is over. Go away, don't text me, don't talk to me, don't call me. I don't want anything to do with you, thanks, Mycroft, ever again."

John watched as Mycroft opened his mouth to say something, and then changed his mind as he left the room, and only then did he lean against the wall with his head in his hands. "What do I do now, Sherlock?"

* * *

Mrs Hudson felt completely awful when she saw John Watson the next day. She couldn't do anything to help him, but she had a feeling that he was getting no sleep, and was starting to get even more confused and lost as he tried to make sense of why the only consulting detective in the world had killed himself. Why was he trying to convince himself that there was a mystery? He had jumped. But John couldn't accept that.

"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked when she caught him in the corridor. "You look like you're dying."

"Dying? No, I've lost people before." But he had doubt in his eyes. "Um, Mrs Hudson? Do... do you have his phone with you? It's gone, and I want to... y'know... keep it. For obvious reasons he'd probably scoff at."

He smiled weakly, but it wasn't very convincing. "His phone? No, I'm sorry, dear. Don't the police have it?"

John shook his head. "No. I just hoped it would help with all this. You know. The mystery. It's my turn to solve a difficult mystery, don't you think? I know what he did: I should be able to work this out. But I can't."

"You need a new therapist. Listen to me-don't you roll your eyes! Get some help. sleeping pills, maybe."

"I'm _fine_," he insisted, and she had a feeling he was about to walk away again. "I don't need any help."

"John!" she said warningly. "If you don't get yourself some help, _I'll _get it for you-do you understand me?"

He nodded. "OK-as long as I find out what happened to..._him_...I don't care what happens to _me _at all."

She sighed, watching him walk away. For a moment she just stared, realising that he was right. Maybe it wouldn't only be Sherlock Holmes committing suicide in the next week... perhaps John would join him.

No suicidal thoughts went through his head, however-not even as he walked past St Bart's. All that he was thinking about was the phone, and how it _had _to hold a clue to Sherlock's death. If it didn't... well, he had no lead on anything, did he? He wasn't like the Great Detective: he couldn't know everything by just one glance. _You see, but do not observe... _how _could _he observe? He couldn't just look at things and remember them-it would be far too difficult. Just as he was walking down the street, he bashed into someone again, and realised that he was doing it again. He had to think of something else. But it was a bit hard when he recognised the young woman in front of him, nervous and blushing as she tried to pick up her things.

"Molly Hooper?" she looked up when he said it and stared in surprise. "Jesus! What are you doing here?"

"Oh, um, getting... cigarettes... for a friend..." she bit her lip and looked at the floor. "No one you'll know."

He knew a lie when he saw one usually, but today he was too distracted. "You look really tired, Molly."

She smiled, and finally stood up. "Yeah, well... busy, busy, busy... how have you been? Since... all that?"

"Great. I've been... great." An awkward silence appeared, and he suddenly said, "Do you fancy a coffee?"

"Coffee?" she blinked, as though it was a word she hadn't heard before. "Um... sure. I have to get away from it all, anyway. It's been a very long few weeks, you know. When do you want to go for one, then?"

John grinned. "Right now, if you want. I mean, there's a café around the corner that I heard you like."

"Well, OK," she smiled happily again. "Let me just text my... friend... and tell them I'll be a bit late back."

They spoke about _him _and what had happened, and John had to admit that telling someone how he felt was really helping with the lost feeling he always had whenever he thought about him. Molly proved to be a good listener. Though she was anxious, she was still good-humoured and kind, and John was surprised.

"Do you ever wonder _why_?" he suddenly asked. "You know-why he jumped. Without an explanation."

Molly shrugged. "Why does anyone do anything? I think he was just depressed for a long time. And alone."

She ducked her head and seemed lost in thought until he said, "I'm finding out what happened to him, and you can help me. Sherlock wasn't depressed-you know how he was. Please, Molly. You're really helpful."

"You want _my _help in an investigation?" she smiled happily. "OK! I can help you. What do we do first then?"

"Well..." he paused. "You and Jim. I want to know about you and Jim-do you know anything about him?"

"I said before that it wasn't serious, and after all, he turned out to be a maniac. Sherlock was right. I'm really terrible with boyfriends." Molly fell silent and sighed. "OK. I'll tell you about him-but I don't know much. Not here, either-if he's as clever as people say he is, he'll probably have someone following you. I don't know..."

"You read the papers, then? Load of rubbish. Saying he's made up. Do you believe that, Molly?" he asked.

"No," she laughed. "Made up? _That's _made up itself. I don't think Sherlock would _hire _someone to try and kill him. And he wouldn't need to give him his number, either, would he? He might ruin everything, but not his own life-that's just stupid. Jim was real, a real, true villain. See, I'm not as stupid as people think I am."

John smiled. "You're not at all stupid, Molly. Not everyone can go through what you've gone through."

She returned the smile. "No, not all people date criminal masterminds without even knowing... I'm so glad no one's found out about it yet. The last thing I need is journalists trying to sneak into my house at night."

They both laughed happily, and a weight had been lifted from John's shoulders. "So, St Bart's? One hour? You know, to talk about what you know without people over-hearing." She nodded. "Good. Good."

* * *

_Richard Brook: There Is No James Moriarty_. The paper stared up at him, and he glared back, disgusted. _Struggling actor, Richard Brook, was hired by the Consulting Detective in the world, Sherlock Holmes, to play the villain, James Moriarty, who Sherlock made up! Is Moriarty real, or is it just Richard Brook, trying his best to get money? _John just stared at the person selling it for a very long time before throwing it onto the floor, looking livid. How could someone write such lies? It was ridiculous that people actually _bought _this!

"What a load of rubbish!" he said, loud enough for people to hear him and stop in the street. "Why the hell would someone _hire _a guy to go around trying to kill them and kill other people?! So an actor killed and blew places up, huh? Just for money? If you believe this, you're obviously a sheep who has to follow!"

People were muttering now, and he heard snippets of whispers: _is that John Watson? Well, of course he'd defend him... look at him standing there like he owns the place... come on, let's get back... _If anything, it made him even angrier. "So one second you're all in love with Sherlock Holmes and now you think he made it all up? Well then, everyone here is a fake! Every genius! How about me? Was I just a victim in all this?"

The small Irish man selling the newspapers shook his head slowly. "Not if you defend that fake. I can't believe we all fell for it, can you? No one is that clever. It's just impossible. He _must _be a fake, Dr Watson."

John didn't even look at him, ignoring the nagging feeling that he'd heard that voice before. "How was he?"

Someone in the crowd laughed. "Richard Brook even admitted that the stupid man had _hired _him, sir!"

"Oh, yeah, OK, why don't we all go to a consulting criminal and ask him to pretend to be someone just to _spite _someone who's _dead_!" he yelled, and someone behind him laughed quietly. "What's so funny, huh?"

The newspaper seller smirked, his face covered by a hat, and handed him a paper, whispering, "You should really see what they say about you. It's very amusing." Before John could react to his recognition of the Irish seller, the real criminal smirked again and walked away, and there was too much of a crowd to chase him.

"Are you sure?" Mycroft asked, frowning in confusion at what John was saying. He had gone immediately to Lestrade, and to his annoyance, Holmes had been talking to him before he had got there. "Really, John?"

"Yes!" he yelled. "I know what I saw! See, Greg? I was _right_! That was not enough staining for a death."

"So you're saying that Moriarty is a zombie back from the dead, yeah?" Donovan unhelpfully said from the corner of the room. "Wow. You're out of your mind. How the hell are we going to believe that, Dr Watson?"

He clenched his fists in anger, and Mycroft shook his head sharply. "I'll prove it to you. You might not help me, but I have other help, someone who knew this guy briefly before goddamn _Richard Brook_! Brook doesn't even exist! I'd have thought you, Lestrade- who _knew _him-wouldn't believe this rubbish, but obviously you like the papers too much. How the hell can you be a police investigator? This is ridiculous."

Mycroft, from the corner of the room, sighed heavily. "I think someone is taking advantage of your distress, John. It is impossible that this man is alive-let alone parading around pretending to be a newspaper seller-and I strongly suggest you get away from here for a while. This stress must be getting to your head a bit."

"You're saying I'm delusional now?" images of Henry Knight screaming and saying he knew what he he nearly did popped into his head, and he flinched. "I'm not mad. I know what I saw, Mycroft. It was him."

"We need to talk," Holmes said with a meaningful look. "Lestrade, Donovan- leave the room, please."

The others paused before moving out of the room, deciding that it was best not to mess with this man, but John was the one who really wanted to get out of there. "Now, John. I am not suggesting that you're delusional, so before you shout at me, I'd like you to hear me out here, please. What you saw could be anyone, and probably not James Moriarty. Do you think he'd be able to just stroll down the street without people chasing him, including the press, asking if he is Brook or Moriarty? You and I both know that Brook does not exist. It is a very clever and sly thing of the real villain to do, but you have to let the rumors die down, and to do that, you must calm down and just ignore them. What happened out there is outrageous."

John sighed. "He's not dead. I know he isn't. And he's as much the reason Sherlock's dead than you are. I really don't care what you say, Mycroft, because you annoy me. I won't lie there. But he's not going to be allowed to just roam around just to mock and tease _me_! You have to go and get him or something!"

"We can't do anything; we have no idea where he is or even if he's alive. Go home, John. I will see you when I need to see you." He paused, and then stormed out of the room in anger. Mycroft took out his phone and dialed a number as fast as lightening with a grim expression. "He knows. Now what am I supposed to do?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I've realised that I'm really unhappy with this fanfic and I'm starting to wonder whether or not I should drop it... also, it's not very long, as I have realised that there are a lot of plot holes with what I'm putting across. I'm gonna keep Moriarty in the story because of multiple reasons. Should I just delete the story? Opinions on it, please? **

**Chapter Two**

Molly looked rather nervous, glancing left to right before finally turning to John. He was as anxious as ever to understand Moriarty (he was the only one who didn't doubt that it was him), and she could help with that, but didn't seem to be feeling too good about giving away information. She was twisting her the bracelet on her wrist over and over again, eyes still darting to the window and door and back anxiously.

"OK," she said for the fifth time. "What do you actually want to know? You could ask me questions about it."

He smiled reassuringly. "No one will know about this apart from me; he knew my friend, he knows me, and now I'm going to know him... at least, hopefully I will. I promise I won't tell people. So was he nice to you?"

Molly shrugged. "Well, um, I can't really remember. Sherlock was getting to me, so I was only thinking about him and how I _really _wanted to kill him. Sorry!" she said almost automatically. "Sorry. That was a bad thing to say after what happened. But Jim was nice to me, as far as I can remember... I'd remember if he wasn't."

Considering whether or not to tell her that he had seen him spreading lies about his late best friend, he nodded understandingly. "Did he always pretend to be as nervous as you, or was he sometimes... himself?"

"I remember asking him about himself," she said, frowning. "But he was very closed about it, and always looked away. And he asked about Sherlock a lot and what he did with you and his cases and stuff. All the time, which didn't phase me at all, because everyone asked about you. He _did _say that he thought he and Sherlock were very alike, and got bored easily, apparently." John smiled grimly. "And he mentioned something about a boy he once knew, cos I asked why he was so nervous, and he said his friend Carl died."

"Friend?!" he burst into laughter. "Molly, he killed him!" she stared, blinking. "Oh. Sorry. You were saying?"

"He was very clever and always said I was really pretty," at that, she blushed wildly. "I can't believe him."

"Would it alarm you if someone saw him?" she shook her head in surprise. "Good, because I saw him in the street on the way here. Selling newspapers and laughing at me. How did he know I would be there, Molly?"

She stared at him for about five whole minutes before finally breathing, "He's alive?! I thought he died!"

He nodded. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Turns out geniuses can fake deaths." As he said it, he looked up at the ceiling, seeing Sherlock falling clearly in his mind's eye. He already felt a tiny bit of hope in his heart.

For the first time since John had met Sherlock Holmes, he was bored, and understood his friend's boredom. He was frustrated at the same time, glaring at the wall like it was evil. _The wall had it coming_. That memory hurt. In fact, he had a feeling that even if he had Sherlock jumping into the room and shooting at him, he'd feel much better. Molly had not been that helpful, but it wasn't her fault. No serial killer would decide to pretend to be a nervous wreck and still tell someone they hardly knew that they were a criminal mastermind out to burn the heart of Sherlock Holmes. Then again, Molly would probably faint if he told her something like that anyway. He wished, not for the first time that day, that it was Sherlock alive and not Moriarty. He wished he could find his phone. John wished for a lot of things for the tenth time, but that wouldn't make them come true: working in war and with the Holmes brothers had taught him as much. What the hell was Moriarty even playing at now? He had played dead, and now he was selling _newspapers_? No, there had to be a catch... where? What was it, then? And what about Sherlock? John leaped up, suddenly realising that he had been so stunned after seeing the criminal that he had forgotten all about why his friend had jumped. He was about to text Sherlock's phone again when he realised he already had a message: _It's a shame you're so depressed, John. You're no fun when you don't notice things! J.M. _The doctor froze, staring at it for a long time before dropping it onto the floor and almost tripping over.

"Jesus Christ!" he breathed, too surprised to say much else but: "OK, don't freak out... could be anyone..."

That was highly unlikely. Mrs Hudson caught him from the corridor, and sighed. He was going mad! One day, someone would be laughing at him, but that day was coming much sooner than people thought...

* * *

Sherlock looked at his phone again and sighed. When would he stop texting a dead man? He had a feeling that it wouldn't be any time soon; though he did not understand or appreciate sentiment, he still had a fair view on it that helped him to see it when it was staring him in the face. Had he really crushed the army doctor so much? It was stupid when he thought of it. Then again, most things were stupid in his mind.

"So-we're both alive." He looked up and rolled his eyes, already bored of Moriarty's predictable words. "I'm supposing that he doesn't know, seeing as he was crying yesterday. How did you manage it then, Sherlock?"

Sherlock laughed. "You already know that. If you hadn't been distracting me _I'd_ have guessed what _you_ did."

His nemesis shrugged, looking bored. "Well, I couldn't have you _knowing _I faked it, could I? You wouldn't have jumped! I was disappointed in you, I think you've gathered. What about your little pet, Sherlock? Is he going to be depressed all the time and gradually move on away from you, or are you going to tell him and get a punch to the face? He's so _boring _depressed! Then again, most ordinary people are, aren't they?"

"What is it that you want _now_?" he demanded, slipping his phone into his pocket. But Moriarty saw it, and grinned happily as he understood what he was doing. "Forget that question. What are you plotting now?"

"Well I'm not going to tell you, am I? What do you take me for? Just keep an eye on your little pet. I am."

On that final note, he turned and walked away, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't even try and stop him.

* * *

_I need your help with something- SH_. Who'd have thought he could be just as annoying when he was supposedly dead? _It's important_. Molly sighed in exasperation and shook her head. She wasn't doing this today; John was looking at her in an odd way, and she had a feeling that he was starting to get suspicious of her. But she had no time to care, because another message came through: _It's about Jim, Molly. Unless you want to get dragged into a stupid game, come to the lab right now- SH_. Even that wouldn't make her go, however, as she had a horrible hangover from going out with friends the night before, and she had a day off work today. That was what she got for helping someone as annoying as he was fake a death, she supposed.

"Are you OK?" Watson asked in concern. "You look really unwell."

"I'm fine, thanks. Sorry about my phone going off. So, you were talking about therapists. Go on."

She was interested, but she knew she didn't _seem _very interested when John shook his head. "No, it's OK."

Molly sighed. "Yeah, I'm not a very good listener. I always get distracted. Please, do go on, I'm listening."

"My therapist keeps telling me I need to move on," he continued. "But I don't want to forget."

"You won't. People don't just _leave_. They stay there with you forever, dead or not."

"Yeah, but maybe she's right. Every time I see someone tall, or a picture of him, I just... you know. I just drop everything I was thinking of and feel like I've been chucked down a hill. And I don't like talking about it."

She nodded in understanding. "I felt like that when my nan died. I was ten, but I felt like I was falling."

"Do I try to move on or do I cling to memories?" he asked sadly, and she wished Sherlock would let her tell him that he was alive, and not dead at all. "Because none of them sound good to me. I wish he didn't jump."

_Hurry up-after John too. Don't tell him- SH_. She sighed and stood up. "I'm really sorry, but I have to go."

"That's OK," Watson said, sighing. "I have stuff to do, too. Still working out what the hell happened to him."

As she walked out of the room, however, John suddenly thought of something: threats. What if Sherlock had been threatened? What if someone had made him do it? He smiled grimly. This was slowly, very slowly, but surely coming together, and he hoped he'd work it all out soon. He just wanted this sorted.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Three**

_If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you_. John was trying his best to recall everything that had happened in the times he had met Moriarty, trying to find something useful. He had got the idea from Sherlock; he had always said he stored what he needed in his head, and oddly, John could remember everything like it was yesterday. Burning had nothing to do with _falling_, though, so that was useless. A knock on the door snatched him away from his thoughts, and he sighed irritably, guessing this was how his late friend felt whenever he was interrupted. For a moment he just sat there in a melancholy state, but finally called out, 'Come in', sighing heavily and waiting for the person behind the door to open it.

"Hello!" Mrs Hudson said cheerfully. "A package came for you today whilst you were out with you friend."

She looked really pleased when she said 'friend', and John smiled half-heartedly, taking the small package away from her. Mrs Hudson blundered on about things before finally saying goodbye and leaving happily, leaving him to stare at the package. For a second he wondered if it was something dangerous, but he opened it and... there was Sherlock's phone, glinting at him. Thoughts of the night at the pool disappeared as he stared at it, and then fell back into a chair. Who could have had it? And why would they give it to him after a few months? It made no sense, and he was already frustrated with himself for not being cleverer. He thought and thought and thought, but nothing popped into his head. Instead of over-thinking it, John took out the phone with a shaky hand and turned it on. There was no password, which, he suspected, meant that someone had taken it off before sending it to him. But it was _blank_. Everything had been wiped off, but why? He thought about it for about two hours before finally understanding: something important had been on it-something that would lead him to the truth. And he was going to find out what that something was.

* * *

"I need a new phone." Molly blinked. She had only just arrived at the lab and already Sherlock was talking like she had never been gone; she wasn't used to this yet. "Can I use yours? I want to see who's been texting you. New boyfriend?" he added, noticing the flushed look on her face. "Did you get the cigarettes?"

She shrugged, handing him her phone and watching him flick through it. "I'm not in contact with anyone you know, Sherlock. No, I didn't get any. I went for coffee with John instead, and you're not _allowed _them."

Sherlock scowled. "Sandra... Sylvia... John... Peter... Sam... Boring. Boring. Boring. Your texts are boring."

"Give that here!"

She sighed irritably. "What were you looking for, anyway?"

"A maniac on your contact list," he replied truthfully. "You deleted the texts. Why?"

"Maybe because some people don't like remembering everything they see?"

He smiled wryly. "At least it helps me."

Molly snatched her phone from him and checked through her contact list herself, deleting a few people.

"Mind your own business," she snapped. "Who I text has nothing to do with you, OK?"  
She shoved the phone in her pocket and picked up her bag again just as Sherlock said, "How is John?"

There was a hint of remorse in his voice. "Um... he's OK. Wait, no, he's not. He's depressed. Thanks to you."

"It wasn't my fault. Any contact with him and he dies. With that git still running around being annoying and spreading his web, I can't really stop that, can I?" he sighed thoughtfully. "Oh, I have an idea..."

"Well you're not using me," she said immediately, narrowing her eyes. "No way am I going to get involved."

"You did last time," he pointed out unhelpfully. "A lot more than you should have. Why not this time?"

Molly just shook her head and stormed out of the room, leaving the detective to frown and try and put two and two together. This time, she was _not _going to be used. She'd check twice for detectives in the wardrobe.

* * *

John was pacing again, glaring at the phone every so often and sometimes even yelling abuse at it like it would turn into Sherlock and tell him what the hell was going on. After a while, he turned to the window and half-hung out of it. There was a figure leaning against a wall, who looked up and waved. He frowned, but from where he was he could not see who it was. If he had paid a bit more attention, he would see that it was definitely not anyone he knew, but a homeless person. Keeping an eye on him should the lunatic decide the game was not finished. Watson stared for a while, swiftly turned and kicked over a table in anger.

"Wait!" he said out loud. "It could be a clue! A clue from who? Oh, for _God's sake_! This is just so clouded!"

"Uh, Dr Watson?" he looked up, realising the door had been left open and Mrs Hudson stood with Molly.

He blinked. "Oh, um, sorry. Hi. Molly... what are you doing here? Did you find anything out or something?"

"No. Was I supposed to? Is that Sherlock's phone?" she frowned. "What's it doing here?"

"What do you mean?" Immediately John pounced on how she had worded that. "Where should it be?"

"His brother? I mean, if he is the British government and there's still so much mystery surrounding his death..." she shrugged. "Shouldn't he have it? I'd want it if I were-"

"Mycroft is definitely hiding something. Damn, I wish I could go after him and concentrate on...who's that?"

Molly turned around and looked at the door. There was someone in the doorway, and John sighed in relief when they saw it was Lestrade and nobody else, walking up the steps with a very serious expression.

"Hello," Lestrade said, smiling wryly. "First of all: I'm sorry for the argument I had with you about the phone and blood and all of that. Turns out you were right. Secondly: guess who we've spotted? You really weren't delirious when you saw Moriarty, but he's not the problem right now. He's left everything alone and I don't know why. And that's your lot of news." John frowned. "Before you ask, yes, we are going after him."

"Like I said," Lestrade continued, annoyed at the army doctor's expression, "he's not our biggest problem right now. A guy was found dead today. Yeah, sounds normal. Problem is, we don't know how he died, and he also had a picture of Mrs Hudson next to him alongside a sniper rifle. We could really do with Sherlock."

John nodded, and then realised. "Have you checked for poison? Maybe he was poisoned, just like before."

But the inspector shook his head firmly. "I don't know, and we can't check. We found him and then today his body was gone, which is why I'm here: to ask you for help. He's just disappeared after being found."

"Jesus! Any family?" he asked, ever the compassionate one. Lestrade shook his head. "Oh, that's good..."

"John, he was going to kill Mrs Hudson," he replied slowly. "And you're worrying about his family?"

"Yeah. I lost people. I lost Sherlock." The army doctor hung his head slightly. "I know what it feels like, OK?"

There was an awkward silence that Molly broke by saying cautiously, "Shall... shall we go and have a look?"

* * *

By the time they had arrived at the crime scene, all of them felt a little low spirited. John couldn't help but expect Sherlock to pop up with excitement plastered on his face, and found he was very disappointed when he didn't. Well. He _was _dead, after all.

"Is there any proof you found him?" he asked, looking around at the floor and walls. "I mean, could you show me how you know?"

"What, you think we have the wrong place? We don't have proof," Lestrade muttered, "but I know he's gone."

John nodded. "Right then, OK. You expect me to tell you some dead guy's life story without anything at all to lead on? I'm not Sherlock."

"Yes, if that wouldn't be too much trouble."

He looked at the floor, where there were traces of someone who had been moved, and he spotted a mark in the dust. That meant that the place had been abandoned for ages, apart from the sniper and whoever killed him. There were signs of a struggle; he knew this because the wall was slightly scratched as though someone had tried to cling onto it, and there were several footprints all muddled up, too. It looked as though someone had definitely been murdered here. He would call that proof, but he wasn't a detective.

"OK, so I can see what happened. The sniper was kneeling on the floor, looking out of the window and waiting, as there are coffee mug stains on the staircase, and then someone came up behind them, strangling them, by the looks of it, because there was a huge struggle, as you can see from the prints in the dust."

"Are you sure you're not Sherlock?" Donovan said after a while.

John shrugged. "Well, seeing as I actually feel emotions, yes, I'm quite sure. I've just been around him for enough time to see these things. It's no big deal when you know how."

"Can you tell who it is?"

"No," he sighed. "Like I said: I'm not Sherlock. I can't tell you every single bit of information just by some marks, OK?"

"Ooh, touchy!"

"Sally," Lestrade snapped sharply. "Leave him be. Thank you, John. I think we might be able to tell now."

* * *

Meanwhile, Mycroft Holmes was arguing with someone on the phone. Yet again, he had failed. And yet again, he had no information that would be of any news to the blackmailing person on the other end of the line.

"Did you not hear me say, 'Make sure he doesn't find out he's alive'?" the person snarled. "And what's he doing now? Finding it out!"

"Yes, I am well aware," Mycroft said impatiently. "What can I actually do about it? Why is this so important?"

"You don't need to know that. All you need to know is that I'll feed you information, you give it back. Sound familiar to you?"

The elder Holmes brother sighed. "You can't threaten me with that. Yes, I am ashamed, I admit it, but that doesn't mean it is any business of yours to know what went on. What do you want me to say to him?"

"Just make sure he doesn't know who is alive and who isn't," the person answered immediately. "He can't know. I don't care what you do. Get it done, or this information will spill out and you'll have no one to turn to. There is no consulting anything anymore. And you're going to make that known to John Watson. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," he said after a pause wearily. "Yes, I understand."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I'm really sorry for the incredibly long wait, but a lot of stuff has been going on. Plus I only just finished watching a whole box-set of a TV show that has now ended, so I was a bit caught up in that. This is a short chapter as well, only because I thought it was how the chapter should have ended. Didn't really like this chapter, but you know, here it is. Again, I'm so, so sorry, and I'll try my best not to let it happen again. Thanks for reading :)**

"OK..." Sherlock looked at his watch, and then at the window of the apartment. He knew who was in there and he knew what he had to do, but killing people had never really been his biggest enjoyment. Then again, John and Lestrade were in danger. "So, second sniper. This could never have been any easier to find, really."

He sighed heavily, inwardly telling himself to shut up and get the job done, and walked around to the back of the house shared by three people. Jackpot! Finding this was so simple! And no one would find out he did it, not even Mycroft. He was a dead man walking, and with the other idiot showing himself just to make John think he was going mad, even if he appeared to the public he still wouldn't be blamed. Some people were so stupid, and Sherlock Holmes was definitely not one of those people. He climbed through the window (sure enough, the house was empty) and silently walked up the stairs, checking that he still had the poison with him from the case that had made him an internet star (he scowled as he thought this). Of course he had kept it, just a little. Just in case. And now he needed it... what luck. Sherlock opened the door, careful to make sure he still had gloves on, and stepped inside. There was the sniper... it was time to end Moriarty's little, annoying web and hold on him, and kill the second sniper out of the three of them.

* * *

Meanwhile, John and Molly were talking about something very boring: work. None of them really cared about it, but both just had to get a break away from the dead detective and everything behind his strange, definitely not suicidal, death.

"Oh, I heard you got your job back at the... wherever you worked?" Molly asked, struggling to make conversation. "You're a doctor, right?"

"Yeah. I need the money and I quit ages ago, and plus Mrs Hudson was nagging me to find something to do. Like a hobby."

"So you don't have hobbies? What about shopping?"

"I used to. You know, shopping was the best thing in the world!" he said sarcastically. "I didn't have time."

This was generally the truth; with Sherlock dragging him out whenever he pleased (the record had been waking him up at three am because of a missing person he saw walk past the house-they later found out that it had been a girl running away from an abusive mother). It was a shock that he actually didn't miss sleep anymore. He'd much rather run around buildings following people to solve cases.

Molly was talking, he realised, and snapped out of his thoughts. "...And you can imagine my shock when I saw the guy was shouting at _me_!"

"What? Oh! Sorry, yeah. I agree," he said quickly.

"You probably need some sleep... you look exhausted," she said, frowning. "And you just nearly fell asleep, too."

He stared. "No, no, I'm fine. It's nothing, believe me."

"It's Sherlock, isn't it?"

He was hardly listening, though, because he had just seen Lestrade burst into the room.

* * *

"We found him like this three hours ago," Greg explained. "Do you have any idea of who it is?"

John frowned, staring carefully at the huge bulky man on the floor, eyes unblinking and lifeless. He had seen many corpses before, but this one... this one's eyes stared at him almost accusingly, like it had been his fault that he had died.

"No. Never seen him before in my life, sorry."

"This is the last time we call you for help," Donovan muttered. "I guess only the physcopath really knew what was going on."

John heard. "Say that again?"

"You," she said loudly, "are not very helpful. We probably need the freak if we're to understand this."

"Why the hell did I ever even consider helping you?" he glared. "You know, one day that's gonna get you back."

"I don't believe in karma."

"Neither do I."

"Was that a threat?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes.

"Maybe."

Lestrade intervened before anything could go wrong: "OK, I'll call you if we need you again, John. You can go now."

* * *

Mrs Hudson jumped as John slammed the door and ran past her, almost knocking her backwards. "John! What's wrong, dear?"

"I've got it!" he yelled back. "I finally understand some of this mystery!"

As soon as he was back at home, he snatched out Sherlock's phone and frantically checked it one more time. Nothing. Everything had been erased, and he suddenly understood exactly why. Two people had died, both in a struggle, with guns found in their houses. What if they were killed by the same murderer, but this killer was trying to explain to him that they were erasing something important?

"Yes!" he said out loud. "That's it!"

Now he just needed to work out what they were erasing and who was the killer. It couldn't be that hard; he had solved things before. Well, then again, he had the cleverest man alive with him then, and it was a bit easy with Sherlock there. Suddenly the phone's signaled that it had received a text, and John froze.

_Haven't you worked it out yet? People can't spell it out for you all the time, Watson._

It was from an unknown number, and it had no initials at the end, either, like most people he was weary of did. He frowned and stared at the phone in his hand, and slowly placed it down onto the table in silent fear. Now, having Sherlock's phone did not seem like the greatest thing in the world.

* * *

Lestrade sighed and leaned on the desk, annoyed, stressed and confused. That was the second man dead in one week, both of them having no obvious cause of death and both linked. Who was killing snipers, and why? Was there going to be somewhere else about to die? He frowned and thought about looking through some documents telling of some killers around the place just as the door opened.

"Good evening," Mycroft Holmes said with his usual calm and collected manner. "I wanted to talk to you about these deaths."

"Well, good luck with that. No leads whatsoever. Have you got any idea of who the hell the killer is and why they're killing these guys in particular? Cos I don't; I'm far from any clues."

Mycroft smiled. "Yes, I do, in fact. A few months ago, some killers moved in around my brother and John Watson. Some of them died, some of them stayed behind. Do you not find it odd that the people who were still alive have just been murdered? Only one remains, you see, and you have to find out who that is exactly. When all of them are dead we will see what this is. Killer or not, the last sniper must be hidden away and protected. Perhaps we can get this peculiar murderer out in the open."

He pulled out some files and placed them gently on the desk. "Good luck, Inspector. I hope you find him."

"Find him? Find who?" he asked, confused. "That sounded like a double meaning!"

"That is because," Holmes said in amusement, walking out of the room, "it was."

And he was gone, leaving Lestrade to think. But Greg still heard the obvious: "It is done" from the hallway.

* * *

One more man to kill, and he was free to meet John again. Surely he would get a few punches, perhaps even a sobbing friend, but it would be worth it and he deserved it. After all, he had just faked a death and not told him about it. Sherlock smiled, standing in the shadows and staring up at the house he used to live in. John would be making tea, or maybe hot chocolate, and reading by now. He stood there watching the house for a few minutes before swiftly turning and walking away, hoping this job would end soon. All Sherlock really wanted now was to turn up like a miracle, and see John and Mrs Hudson again. This time it would work; he was sure of it. That is, he was sure until he heard a gun cock behind his head.


End file.
